Page 64 of Ignition

Before I could pull my phone away from my ear and check, a door slammed somewhere in the distance. The neighbours—or something on his end.

My feet stopped dead, ears perking up to catch more sounds.

“Josh…?” My teeth sank into my bottom lip.

“Didn’t you say ‘shut up’?” he teased, amusement clinging to his words, like he was trying not to laugh. Then, his tone turned earnest. “I’m… not sure what to say.”

Another pause had me pacing again.

“Thanks for calling, Mia.” His voice sounded hoarse around the edges, a little strained, even.

A strange flutter thrummed in my ribcage. It had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with how he’d said my name.

My hands tugged at the collar of my sweater, but before I could say anything, something clattered on his end, followed by distant shouts.

My insides turned to ice. I opened my mouth—

“Gotta go. Thanks for checkin’ in.”

The line went dead.

I sank onto the bed, stomach twisting in painful knots.

I’d had him figured out. Or so I thought. Little did I know—

He’s a grown man, he’ll be fine.

But my heart kept racing, and the nausea crawling up my throat had nothing to do with the eggnog. I was stone-cold sober now.

As if seeking comfort, my thumb scrolled through my contacts. I pressed Liam’s number, but it was out-of-service, so I dialled Pri’s.

“Meeerry Christmas,” she chirped in lieu of hello.

My shoulders dipped a fraction.

“Merry Christmas.”

In the background, a male voice was saying something that must have been a joke, because she chortled loudly, loud enough I had to hold my phone away from my ear.

“Mark says thank you for the gift. We’ve been painting nightmare-fuel reindeer for two days now,” she sing-songed.

Warmth spread under my ribs like a flood as a laugh bubbled out of me, unrestrained and crinkling at the edges, softening into a smile as it died out. I pictured them, heads bent over the table, fighting over the best shade of red to use.

“Tell Mark I’ll need the pictures for the growing blackmail folder. My people are gonna call his people.”

“Will do,” she giggled.

The questions about Josh were on the tip of my tongue, but when she made a joke and cackled at it herself, I shoved them firmly away.

Not like I knew how to even ask, anyway.

She was a cheerful, yapping drunk, but the more she talked, the more the knotted ball of stress in my stomach unwound. I only chimed in with a hum or a chuckle, until a soft voice floated up the stairs at me, and I waited for a lull in her rambling to get a word in.

“My mom’s calling me, I gotta go. Let the eggnog breathe, hon,” I teased warmly. Her cheerful little chortle bade me goodbye before the call cut off.

I tried to shove him out of my mind, but with every passing hour, I grew more concerned—not that I’d admit it. The next day, we put on a Christmas movie, but my eyes ping-ponged between the TV and my silent phone.

After lunch, we embarked on one of my favourite traditions: visiting neighbours and swapping homemade sweets. By the time we shrugged off coats, pink-faced and teeth aching from too much sugar, he still hadn’t texted.